Reuben Part 2: The Road to Altamont
by paulbc
Summary: Continuing the story of Reuben, time-traveling music agent. It follows "The Power of Positive Thinking" and takes him to the infamous Altamont Free Concert. It is followed by the third and final story, tying Reuben back into the Partridge Family timeline.
1. Doctor Schlock

The substitute band turned out to be a bigger hit than I could possibly imagine. The gig really was what launched them on the road to fame, just as they'd said in that dream I had. Was it a memory? A premonition? I wondered was going on in my head. It made the rest of my work seem pointless if this was the secret of my success.

I thought about the band we originally signed. I had only spoken to them during that short meeting but I was impressed. We all were. I still couldn't come to terms with their sudden death. If that was "positive thinking," I could deal with a little more negativity in my life. Still, it wasn't the substitute band's fault. They saw an opportunity and went for it. They had no idea they owed their chance to a reckless driver.

On Monday, I went to the office a few hours late. Harold and Janet had already been working for hours. Harold greeted me at the door.

"Reuben, I have to admit it. You're some kind of genius, though I still don't know how. My phone has been ringing off the hook. Clubs are calling _me _about booking your band."

"Well…" I half-smiled, more relieved than proud under the circumstances. "Hindsight is 20/20, but here's how I'd break it down. First off, the lead guitarist was right about one thing. It can't hurt to have an attractive blonde on the Vox Continental."

Janet winced and I continued.

"Second, she really can play, so there's that. Third, I was asking around and it seems she worked a little baroque into her solo. It got the attention of a few critics who notice that kind of thing."

"Right," interrupted Janet. "With the full corpus of JS Bach laying open for pillage, what enterprising young thing could resist?"

"Finally," I continued. "She likes to play the Addams Family theme when she's warming up. She snaps her fingers like they do in the show's opening. It got the crowd going with her."

Harold took a breath and replied. "Here's where I'm in kind of a pickle, Reuben. I was willing to take them on a limited basis. But, I'm not sure how to put it. I don't want to be known as the go-to agent for schlock."

Janet pounced. "Schlock, oh I like that. I would have said 'shite', but Harold's got a gift for tact. That must be why he's the boss."

"Janet," said Harold. "We're all reeling from what happened. Reuben too."

I looked at Janet and nodded.

She turned to Harold. "What happened… Oh, you mean the _good _band. The ones who died in the car crash. That _is_ a bit of a pisser. I almost forgot." She covered her face and left the room.

Harold and I looked at each other. She was right to react as she did, but what could we do? We kept talking.

"There's good news for you." Harold began. "I can pass them directly to you as agent. You seem to have a better idea of what to do with them anyway."

"Really?"

"I will still take a cut. And don't get the idea of poaching them either."

"Harold, I think you know me well enough…"

"Yeah but just so it's clear. Think you can handle it?"

I took stock of what I remembered about being a music agent. It was different from the setup I saw around me. I had made heavy use of something called "email" in my work, another thing that appeared to be a figment of my imagination. Could I adapt my skills to the times in which I actually lived?

"I'll give it my best shot."

"Perfect. Feel free to ask for any help you need. Hope it works out. And your band, it's not that I don't find them tempting. Try as I might, I can't see them fitting my image."

"Just call me Dr. Schlock." I said with a smile.


	2. Paying Respects

It was Janet's idea to track down the spot where the deceased performers had played as house band. Though we only met them once, we felt compelled to do something. The three of us found out they were holding a memorial of sorts.

We brought flowers. We were not alone among those paying respects. Besides flowers, there were offerings of beads and lighted sticks of incense. There were plastic tchotchkes from Mickey Mouse to troll dolls. There were jade Buddhas and Zuni fetishes. From the motley display, one point came through loud and clear. The band was loved and would be missed. I hated myself for thinking of them as a lost business opportunity. The crowded club was filled with distraught fans, friends, and family.

The DJ was spinning pop hits of recent years without comment. He read the room masterfully and avoided anything too fast or cheerful.

I watched Janet across the room as a song started to play. We'd been through so much these few months. If I were ten years younger, I thought, but who was I kidding? I assumed Janet wasn't married, but she must have a boyfriend. If not here, then back in the UK. And what of me? I knew almost nothing about my life before I woke up on that bench. The parts I remembered made no sense.

She was taking it all very hard. I could see that. The music continued.

"... but when she gets weary, try a little tenderness..."

"Thanks, Otis." I mumbled to the ceiling. I walked over to Janet.

"You know, I haven't had a chance to mention it all this time."

"Yes?"

"Just that, just that I really like working with you. You have a lot of knowledge, a lot of insight, and a wicked sense of humor. Harold didn't know what he was getting when he hired you, I'm sure of it."

"Thanks, Reuben." She smiled warmly. "You know, you're spot on when it comes to the business side. I just can't think that way. I can't."

"It takes all kinds. Harold knows it too. I worry a little about my new role."

"The less said the better. I do understand it's a business. I do understand that you see a lot of money to be made. You're right."

"I just don't want it to poison our friendship."

"Yes. I know."

The DJ switched to another song. "I like this one." said Janet. "The words are bollocks, but it fits the mood."

"You know we 'Yanks' tend to read too much into everything." I smiled. "Especially when it comes out of Britain. A hell of a lot of ink has been spilled over these lyrics."

The chorus came on. "...her face, at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of..."

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Janet. "That's the widow."

There was a young woman looking numb to the world, a curly-haired toddler in tow. A boy of about 18 months, he was pointing to a photo of the drummer. "Daddy," he was saying. "Flowers on Daddy," he added, pointing to the picture frame.

Janet's hand met mine. "Here's a fiver. It's all I can afford right now. Put it in the jar. I can't handle this." She left.

I saw the collection jar on behalf of the drummer's family. I reached into my wallet for my own contribution and motioned Harold to come over.

"Harold, it's worse than we thought. I wish we could help them out more." I made my contribution along with Janet's, and Harold made his.

The sound system screeched with feedback. A young man began to speak into the microphone and the room went silent.

"I always envied my big brother, having a cool band like his." The audience murmured assent. "He really had it together. Making a living doing something he loved. I'm not musical, so I couldn't follow in his footsteps exactly, but he showed me how to live. He brought joy to a lot of people. I see them around me right now."

The crowd began to applaud, but restrained themselves.

"One thing makes it especially tough, and most of you probably don't know it. This club was only the beginning. That band was headed for the big time."

"Right on, bro!" shouted an audience member.

"I mean, I'm sure we all knew that in our hearts." he clarified, eliciting nods from the crowd. "But he was about to take a big step. He had finally gotten himself an agent." That got the crowd's attention. "In fact, they had a gig all arranged. He said it was a big shot venue. Important people would be there." A gasp filled the room.

"And, well, that's all he told me. I don't know where. I don't know who the agent was. I'd like to know. I'd like to thank them for giving my brother his first break."

Harold turned to me. "Time to get out of Dodge."

It was a mercy for everyone involved that they didn't know the agent, a mercy they had no idea the act was replaced hours after the crash. The new band didn't know. It's doubtful they had even seen who was on the marquee, just that it wasn't them.

Harold and I walked out as discreetly as we could. Janet was long gone. She'd probably taken a cab home. We expressed relief that nobody made the connection to us and resolved to keep it that way.


	3. Dream Archives

I had been in the office a few hours when Janet came back from practice, clearly agitated.

"'Da da da dum, snap-snap, da da da dum, snap-snap.' Oh I hate her."

"Huh?"

"That awful woman, every time I walk past the harpsichord room. I used to hear it before I met your so-called band, and now I know what it is."

"She told me it's more of a little finger exercise than anything. It brings back happy memories."

"And then she launches into Pachelbel, not just Canon in D major but a varied repertoire. The worst of it is that she's... competent. She could do something worthwhile if she put the work into it."

"What's she's doing now isn't?"

"What is it with you Yanks? You see someone wasting her life and you say 'Oh, pretty girl at the keyboard, snap-snap, how cute! It's from that TV show. The kids dig it.'"

"Maybe I just think people should do what they want to do."

"Yes. That's it. That's exactly what it is with you Yanks."

Janet and I had worked out some tactics for doing our jobs under strained circumstances. I began to do most of my listening when Janet was away practicing. When we had to share the office, we no longer asked each other for opinions on demo tapes. This was a loss, since our views complemented each other valuably. With few exceptions, we never spoke of the band I represented, and I never worked with them in Janet's presence.

All these things happened without either of us discussing it or acknowledging the strain. When we both had to leave the office so Harold could conduct business, we'd still engage in smalltalk. Janet told me more about her studies. I told her as much as I'd told Harold about my amnesia and peculiar circumstances of meeting him.

Our truce was a model of professionalism. On a personal level, it felt like death, one more casualty of that high speed collision. Maybe it was all for the best. I needed to expand my social circles outside the office. Janet was young and did not need me at all.

My cachet had grown in Harold's eyes and he put a lot of weight on my pitches. Sometimes he would still refuse to represent a band I knew in my uncanny way would succeed. Well, it would succeed without Harold. There were plenty of other agents. When we did agree, he'd work on a high profile booking, and these were beginning to pay off. He let me keep the "schlock band" for myself, and I pulled in steady commissions, duly shared with Harold. It was looking like a real job and beginning to pay real money. I had it in the back of my mind to wrangle a few more bands for myself, but that could wait.

When we booked a band from my "cheatsheet", the dreams would always start, just like the first time. I was an agent in these dreams with my own office. It was apparently the future, but not a "space age" future. Nobody talked about space travel at all. It was recognizably LA, just with more buttons, lights, and display screens. Could it be real? In my dreams I was always addressed as Raymond and answered to the name. Did I have some kind of mental link to a music agent named Raymond 30 years from now? That was one explanation. Schizophrenia was another, the more compelling one, except that these dreams had been paying off in actual bookings.

One dream would always start out the same. It was the vivid dream at the radio station. The man who met me would make the same joke about archaeology and bands forgotten since 1972. Then he'd lead me to the listening booth and hand me the archive tapes. At that point, I would hear an interview or sometimes a news break concerning the latest band on our slate. Thankfully none of these portended death like the first, but each would reveal the key to the band's big break.

I called these my dream archives. They backed up the parts I already knew, but provided a clarity that my original hunches lacked. I believed they were actual events. That meeting at the radio station, for instance: it had, perhaps happened like this once. Whatever mechanism produced these dreams had recycled it as an all-purpose intro. The archived tapes themselves were real, I was now certain. I heard one interview conducted live and it matched a dream I had two weeks earlier.

One day as I entered the office, Janet was pitching a band to Harold.

"They're good, Harold. The musicianship is superb. The original compositions are quite catchy. The recording quality of the demo itself is commercial-grade."

"I'm sure that's all true, but I need to understand their target audience, whether they match anything trending with listeners who may not be as, frankly, as sophisticated as you, Janet. Reuben, what do you think? You want to listen?"

I happened to see the name on Janet's tape and it matched my cheatsheet. I knew she had a winner, and kudos to her for finding it the honest way. I looked Harold straight in the eye.

"I don't need to, Harold. I trust Janet's judgment completely. If she's willing to stand behind the tape, that's good enough for me."

"Reuben." said Janet, eyes wide and speechless beyond saying my name.

Harold looked at us both. "Well, I like seeing you kids stick together like that. We're a real team, aren't we? Janet, I'll bring your band in as soon as I can."


	4. The Breaking Point

Janet and I continued to keep a professional distance. My band was doing well and I enjoyed working with them. They were there to please crowds and did a fine job of it. The keyboardist (Carolyn was her name) was without doubt the element that leapfrogged them past senior proms. To their credit, the boys seemed to realize this. They were good sports who knew how put on a show. They had hit the ground running when Harold gave them their break, and hadn't let up since.

Janet's band had their first gig and her mood change was palpable. Harold paid her a generous finder's fee after the show, and would continue to pay her a small commission on each subsequent booking. He reminded me of... in that other life I remembered... entrepreneurs would give employees a stake in their business. "Tech" was the big word in that world, hinted at my dreams. "Raymond's" job of music agent was a quaint nod to tradition.

Harold was way ahead of his time making Janet and me partners in his business. Either that or a throwback: a sea captain with his trusty crew in the age of the organization man.

Meanwhile, momentum was building towards the festival in Woodstock, NY. Harold kept an ear to the rail as each new band was rumored to sign on. Each time he told me, I would try my best but often fail to register astonishment. Harold mistook my nonchalance for confidence.

"You got it right, Reuben." Harold admitted one day. "This festival is going to be bigger than Monterey! How on earth? It's in upstate New York for crying out loud. Just a big mud lot. Now all we need are the naked hippies."

"Right."

"That's when I knew you were a card, Reuben. Mud-covered hippies, good one." He chuckled. "But now I'm thinking you're a man in touch with the Zeitgeist, and it won't surprise me if you got that part right too."

Harold had never gone to college, but he was a voracious reader and could throw in words you least expected to hear. I liked that one: Zeitgeist. I was no time traveler, no psychic, just a man who felt the spirit of the times. That I could live with.

Carolyn stopped by the office one day when Janet was there. This broke two levels of fail-safe. First, I did nearly all my business with the band outside the office, usually at the club we'd booked. Second, if they had to show up, I made sure it was when Janet was off practicing.

Carolyn had lost an earring at the last gig, an heirloom. She wanted to know if I heard anything. In fact, the club had found it and called to tell me. I gave it to her, relieved to be done with the protocol breach and able to send her on her way.

Then Janet spoke up. "Carolyn, I've heard your playing. On the harpsichord I mean. It's lovely. You've a real feel for the instrument. I see why you chose it."

"You think so?" asked Carolyn, eyes lighting up.

"You've got talent, and I know how much work you put into it. I'm not sure I hear anyone else in that practice room. But I wonder if you need a little more focus."

"Focus?"

"The band, I mean."

"The band is a blast. Those guys are such teddy bears. And when they're on stage, they rock the room!" She air-guitared her enthusiasm. "What about it?"

"Well, do you think it distracts a bit?"

"Maybe. I don't have to do it forever. I never thought we'd be so successful."

"Well, that's the problem isn't it, Carolyn? You have to choose. Are you a musician or a sideshow?"

"When you put it that way?" She looked suddenly downcast. "I don't know. I suppose if I had to I could give them up."

I cut in. "Carolyn, you're an already an artist, a true original. You're the heart of the band. Don't let other people tell you what to do."

"Reuben here has a bit of a vested interest, you might consider." Janet shot back.

I began to reply, but Carolyn couldn't take it anymore. "You two! You're not even my parents and I hear enough from them. Just leave me alone!" She slammed the door and left.

"Janet, I have a band to run." I started. "Don't _ever_ interfere like that again."

"Run? You don't run them, you _serve_ them. And weren't you the one saying people should do what they want? How do you know what she wants? I think she wants to drop that atrocious act and get back to her instrument. She just needs a little encouragement."

"This is my livelihood Janet. Do you understand that? It's not a debate in some damn philosophy class."

"You disappoint me Reuben. I thought it was about personal fulfillment or whatever they call it. It's really money, isn't it?"

"It's true, I have a 'vested interest' in her staying with the band. You caught me. She also likes doing it. I would like her to keep it up."

"Right, one less harpsichordist in the world, no real money to be made there anyway, eh?"

"Look, it is her choice. I'd never stop her. But you should stay out of it, OK?"

Bluster aside, I felt like a jerk. Maybe this band was a load of 'shite' as Janet would say. It took the fun out of it if the price was destroying a real musician in her prime. But that was no concern of Janet's. How dare she! I had listened to her snobbery long enough. I was in the rock and roll business. She was just a part-timer. What did she know? I hated her for making me feel any doubt.

And then, I wondered, did any of it matter? I had foreknowledge of this band's success. Why had I picked a fight over something that I probably had no control over at all? All the care we'd taken to reach a working relationship ruined by one misstep.

Things between Janet and me took a turn for the worse. Professional distance crept steadily into thinly veiled hostility.


	5. Call Me Reuben

I fell into the habit of taking long walks when Janet was in the office. It was easier that way. I'd walk through parts of LA where I imagined no one had ventured on foot in years. I'd pick up litter as the mood hit me. One day I struck pay dirt, or if you'll pardon the pun, payroll dirt.

Here was a scrap of fanfold paper with names, addresses, birthdates, social security numbers, and more. I was shocked to see sensitive information like that right out in the open. It seemed to have drifted over from a plant that processed payroll for area businesses. I had put off opening a bank account, getting a driver's license, hell, a much needed dental appointment until I could acquire a solid identity. This find gave me an idea.

In my dreams it sometimes came out that "Raymond" was itself a false identity, one that he (or I?) had constructed. Apparently, he forged it after returning from years spent abroad. This was carried out in a brave new world of centralized computer databases. When computers were advanced enough, I understood, we would be able to run something like instant background checks. A scary thought!

Fortunately, I lived in an age when an identity could be established with a patchwork of paper documents. I had already begun to collect the patches, starting with a library card.

I laid on the charm to explain why my address was a hotel, and promised that I would change the address once I had a permanent roof over my head. "Libraries will get you through times of no money," I quoted "better than money will get you through times of no libraries."

The sweet old lady liked that one. "That's just what I used to tell the Okies when they'd come through." she recounted, nodding. "And the ones who listened did just fine." Score! One official ID. Plus, I really did need it to check out books.

I built my identity both on paper and off. Bartenders all knew me as Reuben. There were my clients and colleagues too. I extended this to a whole network of club owners and patrons as Harold began to trust me with errands. But I needed something airtight. I had been jonesing for a car in this sprawling city and well, call me cautious, but I wanted to get a license first.

One snag was that I couldn't just take any name. I needed an identity that matched the name I already had. I was scratching my head over that one. This piece of paper was the key.

I saw where the scrap had blown from: a dumpster with an open lid. Didn't they have the sense to shred documents? The dumpster wasn't even behind a fence.

I heard the familiar sound of a garbage truck a few blocks away. I ran to the dumpster and climbed up to take a look. There it was: reams of fanfold paper with the same report, filled with names and other personal information. I wasn't sure if this was a regular event or a rare security lapse, and wasn't about to take a chance. I knew what I needed and climbed into the dumpster.

It wasn't worth risking my life, so I listened as the truck came closer. The top sheet had names beginning with A, giving me hope that I could find the part I wanted. I guessed where to find R in the stack and scrambled as the truck brakes got louder. I flipped for the part I needed... wait, no. Idiot! Obviously they were sorted by last name. I wanted K. Now the truck was so close I wondered if I better just save my skin.

With seconds left, I found a sheet starting with "Kane", and another down a bit farther starting with "Kovacs." Rip! I tore at the perforations. It was messy but I got what I needed. I scrambled out of the dumpster. The truck was nearly here.

"Hey you!" the driver yelled "What do you think you're doing?"

I did my best to conceal the sheets, but he didn't even care about that.

"Stay out of the dumpsters! You'll get yourself killed."

I smiled sheepishly and skulked off.

Back at my hotel room, I changed into clean clothes and looked through the list. There were a few Kincaids but no Reubens. Here was Kincaid, Robert A. born in 1947. Pass as 22? Not likely. How about Kincaid, Ryan P. born in 1924? Old, but it might have to do. Wait, what about Kincaid, David R. born in 1931? I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I had assumed I was close to 40, but 38 was workable. "Not David." I practiced to the mirror, "If you want to get picky, it's D. Reuben Kincaid, but most folks call me Reuben."

I had already found a good source to forge the documents I would need. A club connection helped. I brought up the subject discreetly after a show.

"Got a band in a bit of a quandary. They're cutting a single where they need an accordion player, believe it or not."

"Heh, anything goes these days. I can help you find one."

"No, there's one in particular. South of the border, _un muy buen acordeonista._ It's gotta be this guy. Trouble is, he needs papers."

"I get it. Used to be easy to go back and forth and now all this red tape."

"No way to treat an artist." I huffed.

"Well, I can set you up with a guy. He ain't cheap."

"I don't want cheap. I want good."

We shook and he gave me the contact. I had been holding this in reserve until I had a better idea of what sort of identity I needed. Now I had all the pieces in place.

I decided to take rest of the afternoon off. For the first time on weeks, I noticed that sleep mask on the table, the one I had worn on the park bench. It was tempting to put it on and get a few good hours of sleep. Nah, I better wash it first, but I saw how it might come in handy. I closed the shades to block out as much light as I could and took a long nap.


	6. Departure

I began to put my affairs in order. I set up a bank account. It was above board in every respect aside from not being mine technically, and I took precautions to keep the account holder from knowing it existed. I moved to an apartment and signed a six month lease. I bought a car, nothing extravagant, just a late model used Chevy. I felt like a grown up for the first time, outside that strange life I lived when I slept.

Harold let me handle more bands, and that kept me busy. Much like the first, they were oddball acts he didn't know what to do with. I knew every one of them had a future and gladly accepted them.

Janet for her part was having a good run. Harold turned several of her picks into successful bookings. I was not involved. Not all of them were even on my list. I guessed those ones would peter out before making it into my dream archives. No matter, Harold was pleased with the pickup in business.

"Maybe some of your pragmatism rubbed off on our resident connoisseur. You think so, Reuben?"

"Janet's work is her own. I'm happy it's going well."

"I just wish you two would talk more. I miss the old debates. It's been too quiet here."

Maybe he was right and it was time to bury the hatchet. After our fight, Janet never tried to interfere again. She had ample time at the conservatory to persuade Carolyn. I knew she didn't because I checked. Janet might disagree with me, but she never broke my trust.

The next day, I went to the office hoping to catch Janet at work. She was on the phone.

"Only two hours difference? I thought it was three or four. ... Well, we're on daylight saving time over here. ... Really? Never? Perhaps Jamaica is onto something. I never did understand the clock change."

I organized my work space and tried to avoid appearing to eavesdrop. She continued.

"Well, I've come into some money. Not much, but I thought I would take you up on your offer. ... Yes, I can arrange for travel in a week or two. ... Must keep it short. Long distance. ... Lovely! We'll see each other soon." It was after hanging up that she noticed me.

"Reuben. These aren't your usual hours. I'm glad you're here."

"I just thought I'd switch things around. Keeps me on my toes."

"Well then. This may be the best time to bring it up. I'm quitting."

"What? You've been doing so well. Harold was just saying." I paused to consider. "What is it, you want to get back to cello?"

"Quitting that too, Reuben. It's really a leave of absence. I may come back. I'm just not sure I'm that good."

"You can't say that, you..."

"Before you go on, you've never even heard me play. And to be blunt, you wouldn't know what to listen for if you did."

She was right on both counts. I had nothing to say.

"You met Sylvie, didn't you? Just briefly I think. She's invited me to stay with her family and I think it may be just what I need. I've never been to the Caribbean."

"I'm with you on that." I replied. "Why not relax a few weeks and come back?"

"I think I'll get back to London after that. It's been too long. I'm tired of living in a desert."

City loyalty got the better of me. "That's a common misconception. It's more of a Mediterranean climate."

"I meant culturally."

Ouch! I let it pass.

"How much longer are you around?"

"I have some work I promised Harold, probably just a few more days and then I need to start packing."

I started to think about what the office would be like without Janet. Even at our worst moments, I saw what an asset she was to the business. It would never be the same place again.


	7. Fact Finding

Harold's appreciation for Janet had grown as she proved herself not only an expert musician, but an increasingly savvy judge of commercial talent. Her departure was a bombshell, one we were powerless to do anything about. The fighting couldn't have helped, but it did seem the overriding cause was Janet's need to take a break from cello.

"Serious" musicians, I grumbled to myself. The least among them can pluck a few strings or blow over a reed and work their magic to the untrained ear. But to themselves, they are never good enough. I'd known enough not to try to persuade Janet of any other way.

It was, as she said, a leave of absence, offering a small hope that she might return some day. Harold and I put little stock in this and went on with our work. She stayed only a few more days at the office, and we never saw her as she spent her remaining weeks planning her trip.

Fortunately, we had enough business to keep us occupied without screening any new bands. It seemed a good time to clean up the office and we filled several boxes with demo tapes archived in rough chronological order. As I cleared the shelves, I remembered that envelope I had seen on my first day, the one from San Pueblo. It was nowhere to be found.

"Harold, there was an envelope here I meant to ask you about and forgot."

"I think I know the one you mean. I didn't want to lose it, so I took it home about a month ago."

"Janet told me about it. There was a tape and I was curious."

"You'd enjoy it, I think, now that you mention it."

"Yeah, I was..."

"Well, it's all the way across town now, but let me tell you. It was sent by a nine-year-old kid. An enterprising lad to be sure," he noted jocularly. "I expect to cross paths with him again."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the only thing I can't figure out is whether he'll grow up to be a client of mine or a competitor. He plays electric bass with his family band, and for a nine year old, for any age really, he's good enough. But sending that tape to me like he did... I think that kid may have the business in his blood. It's hard to say."

"Electric bass! I played... It's a funny coincidence, I'm sure I played an instrument before my amnesia and I have a feeling it was bass."

"Interesting. So anyway, his family band has a pleasant vibe and I can tell they work hard at it. It's not really up my alley, unfortunately. Not sure what to do with it. Now you, Reuben," he ribbed, "you have a way with all kinds of bands. Maybe I ought to get you guys together."

Our conversation moved on to the preparation for the Woodstock Festival. As I knew already, and Harold realized over time, it was going to be a massive cultural event. Harold had decided he'd take a trip to see it, fact finding, he insisted, though I began to think he was a bigger fan than he let on. I would hold down the fort while he was away.

There were months left till the festival and we got on with our routine. I found myself with enough free time to enjoy my modest success. Having a car made a huge difference and I took long drives along the coast as well as inland to places like Joshua Tree. Whatever my old life had been, real or imaginary, whether those dreams were a real time and place or some coded message concocted in my own mind, I vowed to live in the present. I spent a lot of time with people as part of my work but I had no close friends. I wondered if it had always been that way.

The big day was here for Harold, and he was gathering his things to prepare for his flight back east. What a sight, I thought, the hard-nosed businessman pushing 35 years old reverting back to a wayward youth. It turned out he had missed the Monterey festival in 1967. Why spend half a day driving up the coast, he reasoned at the time, when he had all the music he needed right where he lived? It was a calculation he made to his lasting regret and determined not to repeat.

I pointed to the festival poster with guitar neck and bird. I couldn't help needling him.

"So Harold, ready for three days of peace and music? Walking around without seeing a traffic light or skyscraper? Flying a kite and sunning yourself? Cooking your own food and breathing unspoiled air?"

"Now that you mention it Reuben, I am. Some of that anyway. But it is for fact-finding and I plan to make a lot of contacts, gauge crowd reactions, see what's getting big and what's on the way out. No reason I can't combine that with, uh, an Aquarian exposition."

"Hope you brought a tent. Boots? Raincoat at least?"

"You're going all in on the mud, aren't you Reuben? I guess we'll see."

I spent the next day talking to some of my bands. I was representing nearly as many as Harold now and there were several gigs happening while Harold was away. With Janet gone, I had moved more of the meetings back to the office, including with Carolyn. She asked about Janet and I explained.

"So that's why I never see her around school. I wanted to talk to her."

My panic got the best of me. "You're not thinking of leaving the band?"

"Reuben, the band is the wildest thing that ever happened to me in my entire life. No, I'm sticking with it."

"Glad to hear that." I said, feigning indifference.

"Just, Janet really listened to my playing, and that meant a lot. I thought I could have a real..." She caught herself. "I mean an academic musician to talk to."

"What about your teachers?"

"I meant a friend."

"We all miss Janet. I understand."


	8. A Loving Vibe

Harold was back from Woodstock a day late after weather delayed the festival close. It was no exaggeration to call him a changed man.

"Reuben, you should have been there. If I had known, I never would have asked you to stay. We could have closed shop for the weekend."

"That good?"

"You had the whole thing pegged. The mud, the chaos. I still don't know how you do it."

"Well," I spun, "It's just common sense. You get all those young people together with music. It's a big farm out in the middle of nowhere. What did you think would happen?"

"Maybe. It seems you had it all worked out even before they moved it to the farm. Anyway, you missed one thing I can't quite pin down, and that's why I wish you had come."

I waited for him to elaborate.

"It was just, there was such an amazing vibe to the whole place. I wonder if we really have entered the Age of Aquarius or whatever you want to call it. Such great people. Such love. We need more of these events. A lot more."

Inside, I cringed a little. If my future sense was as good as I thought, then Woodstock marked a peak, not a beginning. And Harold, of all people, my one anchor in this out-of-kilter life, how could I break it to him? He continued.

"Didn't you say you knew about another festival coming up? Something in Northern California? I know I haven't heard a peep."

"Guesswork." I told him. "I mean, if Woodstock was a success, and it sounds like it was, then obviously they'll try to copy it. West Coast most likely, could be anywhere, but sure, somewhere near San Francisco would make sense."

"All right, we'll keep an eye out for it, and if it happens, you go this time. I want you to see for yourself."

That was what I was afraid of. Altamont. I knew what was coming, I knew when, and I knew it wasn't going to be a love-in like Woodstock. Half of me wanted to see it. I mean, the Stones would be playing. By their own account, they played a good set. They played right through the stabbing. I thought of that old gag "And how was the show, Mrs. Lincoln?" Depends on perspective, doesn't it? But whatever really happened, it would put a damper on any more festivals for a long time. Of that I was certain.

"Sure." I said. "I'd love to."

Harold grew expansive "You know, maybe I need a real change of pace. When I was young I didn't know if I wanted to be James Dean or Jack Kerouac. I had a whole different idea of where life would take me. Then I looked around and realized I was no beatnik, I was no rebel with or without a cause. I knew I wasn't much help with the space race either. I saw rock and roll getting big and I rode that train. I've done fine. I like my work, but what did it get me?"

"You're not moving off to an ashram, are you?" I said it with a smile, but I was worried.

"No, Reuben. Nothing that major. Just give me a couple days to come down from it."

Over the next weeks, Harold started letting his hair grow and talked about Woodstock at every opportunity, but remained the reliable boss. We kept up our normal work with clients.

Buzz started growing about the upcoming festival. The planning was poor, as I knew it would be, and for now it was scheduled for San Jose. I assumed it would be moved to Altamont later, but apparently my research in that other life had missed some details. Harold was talking it up and I just kept wondering if there was a way to weasel out of going.

"You know, it's just a big ripoff. You can't make another Woodstock on cue. And these guys aren't even trying hard."

"You might be right, but where's the harm?"

True enough, or you'd think so. I was going to have to do better.

December came and the venue had been moved twice already. At the last minute they settled on Altamont Speedway, a racetrack on some land near the Central Valley. The nearest town, as I had read before, was Tracy. That name again... it meant something... but mainly I had an idea of what to tell Harold.

"Look Harold, this concert is miles from San Francisco. Nobody knows where it is."

"Kind of like Woodstock. Your point?"

"Fair enough, but who's gonna be able to find it on such short notice?"

"I don't know Reuben. There's a free concert by the Rolling Stones. I'm thinking people will find it somehow."

"I just, I just have a bad feeling."

"All right, nobody's forcing you to go. Just sleep on it."

I took a half day and headed back home. I noticed that sleep mask again. I had it cleaned when I moved to an apartment, but hadn't used it. It was a keepsake now, one of the few ties to my former life. The afternoon sun was coming in the window and, I thought, "Hey why not? That's what it's for."

I put on the mask and suddenly recalled the last time I used it. Things were different, and I had gone into a kind of trance. What was that about? Some kind of meditation. I wondered if the mask was what got me into trouble in the first place. Ridiculous! It was comfortable anyway, and did a great job blocking out light. I could really make a habit of napping with it.

I fell into a deep sleep.


	9. I Want News

As I slept, I found myself entering that state I called the dream archives. My "archivist", some real or imagined manager of a future radio station, began his ritual introduction.

"Good to have you here, Raymond. We have archives going back 30 years at least. Not complete, I mean who could keep all ..."

I let him finish and said my line. I waited as he gave his usual spiel.

"... stuff here so old it'll 'blow your mind.' I'm talking 'far out man.'"

I went off script. "I want news. I want news about Altamont."

"Raymond, we won't disappoint. We have bands nobody has heard from since ..."

"News! Did you hear me? News!"

"Yes sir!" he answered snidely. "Anything you want, _Reuben._"

I felt a chill at the turn my dream had taken. What kind of force was I messing with? Desperate now, I begged, "Just... please just bring me the tape."

The archivist got it and handed it to me. "Here's some news you can use," he said cheerfully, reverting to persona.

I went to the listening booth. I wondered if a radio report would even help. As Raymond, I recalled the research I had done on Altamont. By some accounts, local radio stations had ignored the violence and reported the "Woodstock West" that their listeners expected. Maybe that was all I'd get. I started the tape.

_"Violence at Altamont Speedway! A free concert by the Rolling Stones 50 miles east of San Francisco turns to riot as a man is stabbed."_

This was not what I expected. The stabbing I knew, but a riot?

_"According to eyewitnesses, the presence of a young girl in the audience caused an already tense situation to escalate."_

I had never heard anything like this. I listened as the announcer cut to the witness.

_"I saw a man getting beaten and stabbed. He had a gun I think. I was scared. There was a girl there who couldn't have been more than six. The Stones were just playing right through. I yelled, 'Tell them to stop! Somebody pull the plug!'"_

The announcer came back.

_"As some in the audience approached the stage to stop the set, they encountered members of the Hells Angels motorcycle gang. Fighting broke out between the audience and the gang members, starting a crowd stampede away from the stage. At least nine fatalities have been reported as a result of the stampede, including a six year old girl from nearby San Pueblo. Officers from the Tracy Police Department were on the scene ..."_

"That's not what happens!" I yelled. "That's not what happens!" I pulled on the door to the listening booth. Had I ever left it before in this dream? The door led outside. The air around me was thin and I was surrounded by snowcapped peaks. A woman stood in front of me in a loose dress with flowers braided into her hair. Himalayan cinquefoils, I was certain. How could I know that?

"Daniel," she said, shaking her head. "I told you not to use the mask. Now I don't know what we'll do."

"Altamont," I pleaded. "What happens at Altamont?"

"Do you want to know?"

"Yes."

"Then go there, silly." She pulled a cinquefoil from her hair and smiled as she tossed it to me. I reached to catch it and suddenly I was awake.

It was dark all around and I felt for my eyes. The mask, of course. I pulled it off and saw that I had slept into the early evening. I thought about that dream. I knew that Altamont would be a disaster, but it was nothing like the report in the dream. And that place, why did it seem so familiar? Why did that woman call me Daniel?

Just a dream, I know. Dreams are always strange, but I had been relying on the dream archives. Crazy as it sounds, they had never failed me. Whatever was going on, I had to pay attention.

Tomorrow I would tell Harold I was going to Altamont after all.


	10. Altamont

Harold agreed to mind the store while I went to Altamont.

"I can stay this time. It might be a letdown after Woodstock anyway, but I'm happy you changed your mind."

"Like you said, where's the harm in it?"

In fact, I'd have skipped it except for the harm. This was the first time the dream archives contradicted my other recollections. As Raymond, I had researched Altamont and knew the outline of events. The total number of fatalities had been four. Three were accidental, comparable to the two deaths at Woodstock. The fourth, which set it apart, was the stabbing death of an audience member named Meredith Hunter. There had been multiple injuries as well, due to scuffles with Hells Angels hired as "security."

Altamont was not the riot reported in my dream as far as I knew. Still, this Woodstock West had been enough to put the kibosh on any Woodstock North or South. I lost confidence in my ability to predict what would happen. I knew I had to be there. Maybe I had a role. Maybe I could find a way to stop Hunter. Whatever his grievance, he approached the stage with a gun, and that was a fatal mistake. But he had come to the festival to hear music like everyone else. He had come with his girlfriend. The whole tragedy was needless and avoidable.

What was I doing here with this crazy quilt of future knowledge? Could it really be just to ride along, pick out bands from a cheatsheet and collect my agent fees? For the first time I wondered if I had a role in changing the future. Altamont was poorly planned and bound to be a mess, but what if I could nudge it just a little? I looked over at Harold with his hair now approaching his shoulders. I looked at the poncho and peace pendant he had taken to wearing since Woodstock. Maybe he could have his Age of Aquarius after all.

This once, I would use my foreknowledge for good. I'd do it for a friend who helped me. I'd do it for peace and love. It didn't feel like me, not the Reuben Kincaid I thought I was. But there must be some reason for these powers.

I drove up to Altamont the next day. It was the first time I'd been this far north in California in my present life, but it seemed familiar. I suppressed the urge to take a detour to San Francisco. I stayed focused, heading straight to a place so remote that only a serious auto-racing fan would have known about it before this festival. It was somewhere between Livermore and Tracy, and who even heard of them?

There was nothing I could do about the main problem. To be clear, I have nothing against bikers being bikers. This just wasn't the kind of crowd they should be mixing with. There were bound to be fights between Angels and the audience, or Angels and performers for that matter. I was here to prevent the death of one man, Meredith Hunter. I had little to go on but a memory of a young black man with a large hat. It was always that one picture. There was no reason to assume he'd be wearing the same hat. And what would I do when I found him? Either prevent what caused him to approach the stage in the first place, or maybe just divert him somehow. So many things had gone wrong. Just change one of them, I thought.

Another side of me figured I was nuts. I was still cutting my teeth as a music agent. I was not a private detective or whatever it was I trying to be here at Altamont. Still, it seemed the right thing to do, and low risk provided I stayed away from the altercation itself. Just find Hunter when he's relaxed, when he's with his girlfriend. Just distract him long enough.

Finding him in a crowd of 300,000 was a long shot. I tried asking around. He was a Berkeley student, but that hardly narrowed it down. I had some time until the Stones came on as the final act. Maybe I'd get lucky. I tried to enjoy the music as much as I could, but the vibes were wrong. There was already some violence as Jefferson Airplane performed. My chance of doing anything seemed to slip away.

As I pushed through the crowd, a sight stopped me in my tracks. Kids. Not the "kids" I expected to see, but actual children: a teenage boy and girl who might not have stood out by themselves, a school age boy with a shock of bright red hair, and two others, a girl and a boy who were _way_ too young for this scene. What were they doing here?

Now I can sound pretty mean when it comes to children. Let's face it, they are kind of a drag to have around when adults want to play. But I thought of that dream and my protective instincts took over. I went up to them.

"Hey kids," I said in the most authoritative voice I could muster, "You look a long way from home. Do your parents know you're here?"

I bet I was the first one in the whole sea of listeners to try that tone on them. The teenage boy jumped to his feet.

"Yeah, man. My mom knows. We live pretty close."

"We're from San Pueblo, near Napa," offered the red-haired boy confidently. "Keith has a license. He drove here before."

Keith went on. "Exactly. Like I told my mom, it's just over in Tracy."

"My name is Tracy," said the younger girl.

"Right. I said to Mom, we're bringing Tracy to Tracy. What could possibly go wrong?"

There was no arguing with that logic.

"My name is Chris," added the youngest boy, not wanting to be left out.

"Now if you'll excuse us, mister," finished Keith. "The Rolling Stones will be coming on and we want to get as close to the stage as we can."

The teenage girl just looked at me with a smile that said don't worry, it'll all be groovy.

No! I had to think fast.

"I'm a professional," I began. "an agent. I listen to music for a living. And the acoustics in an outdoor venue like this..."

Keith must have stopped paying attention at "agent."

"We have a band."

Who doesn't, I wondered. "Sorry, not taking new clients at the moment."

The red-haired boy interrupted. "That's OK. I have an inside track with a guy in LA. I sent him a tape." The two teens looked at him.

"I'll explain later," he replied to their stares.

"Anyway," I continued. "the thing about these acoustics, you really want to be, uh, as far from the stage as you can be."

I could tell they weren't buying it. Another tack, then.

"I was at the Monterey Festival," I lied. "Where it all began. The Summer of Love. I even put flowers in my hair, you know, like that song."

Now I had them. I knew enough about Monterey to spin some amazing yarns.

"Are you a hippie?" asked Chris.

"Just that once. Usually I keep what we in the business call professional distance, but that was a wild time..."

As I held their attention, we moved gradually farther from the stage. If I could get them out of harm's way, then just maybe I would have one last chance to find Hunter.

Too late. The Rolling Stones were coming on stage.

I was deep into an elaborate fiction starring Ravi Shankar when Keith interrupted.

"You're pretty cool. I mean for an old guy. No offense. But we really want to see the Stones close up."

"Well, uh, you mean you don't want the best listening spot? I can help with that."

He shook his head.

I did a mental calculation. The stabbing would be almost halfway into the set if I couldn't prevent it. Even with this crowd, they might make it close enough to be in danger. I needed another delay.

"So you kids have a band? Really? Tell me about that."

It was my last chance and it worked. I listened as they told me about their family act. Not bad, I thought. There was some real passion there. I kept them going just long enough. When it seemed safe, I wished them luck and started to go.

"Hey, can we have, like, your card?"

I felt my pockets. "Oh darn. I didn't bring any, but uh, next time, all right?" I escaped into the crowd and made one last attempt to stop the stabbing.

Evening had set in and it was difficult to see anything. "Excuse me. Excuse me." I repeated, squeezing my way through tight groups. It was draining to have to move in front of so many people who had just come there to enjoy the show. I had an important reason, but not one I could tell anyone. I just looked like some jerk who wanted a better spot.

I thought about my dream. That part at least wasn't going to happen. I had found the six-year-old girl from San Pueblo and she was no more likely to make it near the stabbing victim than I was. Maybe there was no stabbing. How could any of this be true? I held out the hope that it was all my imagination.

As I made my way closer to the stage, I knew my effort was futile. Part of the way into "Under My Thumb", there was a tussle in front of the stage. Nobody near me knew what it was. The audience had gotten used to disturbances by now. It wasn't even the first time this set had been interrupted by violence. I knew exactly what happened and wanted to throw up.

The band started the song over and got on with the concert.


End file.
